


bury the hatchet (or bury a friend right now)

by MaurianasRavenholdt



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BetterDad!Bruce, Cancer, Gen, Hurt, Loss, Not A Lot Of Plot, One Shot, Some comfort, lots of emotions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:06:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26774863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaurianasRavenholdt/pseuds/MaurianasRavenholdt
Summary: Bruce hears Dick sneak home to the manor late at night. He discovers the reason is more than he can bear.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 128
Collections: Dick & Bruce, everybody loves dick





	bury the hatchet (or bury a friend right now)

Unexpected steps on creaking floorboards were not an unusual phenomenon in Wayne Manor. Bruce had become used to the unannounced comings and goings of his family members. He was no longer alarmed to find Jason curled up in the library with a book, fast asleep. Nor Tim, face down on the counter in the kitchen snoring next to an open laptop. But as he mentally checked off each member of his ‘brood’, it occurred to him that only Dick could have been the late night prowler - a more unusual occurrence. While the others tended to arrive at their leisure, Dick rarely came without a heads up, or, more recently, a request for aid from Bruce. He supposed that was a good thing - children _are_ meant to have their own lives and interests, after all. But something in his heart wished that Dick felt as welcome as the others had made themselves. 

Dick hadn’t felt welcome in a long time though, had he?

Regret filled memories washed up into Bruce’s throat like bile, burning all the same. It was ages ago, wasn’t it? Or maybe not. Only just after Jason had died. Less than ten years. His own words echoed in his mind as he pictured Dick’s face, freshly bruised from the brutal blow _Bruce_ had doled out himself.

_“Why did I think I needed a partner?!”_

_”I suggest you leave. And give your key to Alfred on the way out.”_

Ever since that night, when Dick had done nothing but reach out to his grieving father, there had been a chasm between them. And more often than not, it was Dick who took the leap of faith, made the reach, in an attempt to close the distance. 

Another regret. 

But Dick was _here_. Now. And Bruce was uselessly sitting in his office, self-flagellating. It was time to stop, and go and see Dick. Make sure everything was alright, and that his eldest hadn’t come in search of something more than a warm bed in a familiar room. 

Slowly, forestalling the awkwardness he knew would come, Bruce climbed the stairs to the hallway where the door to Dick’s old bedroom stood opened just a crack. A stream of light spilled out onto the hardwood floor in the hall, lighting up the reds and golds of the ornate rug on the floor. Tentatively, Bruce stepped forward. Took a breath. Knocked lightly. 

“You in there, chum?”

A performative question. Of course he was. 

“Uh... yeah. Just a minute.”

Bruce could swear he heard a sharp inhale, bordering on a sniffle. His son was on the other side of the door, and he was _crying_.

More light flooded into the corridor when Dick pulled the door back. He badly hid his reddened cheeks and puffy eyes. 

“I didn’t realize you’d be home,” he said quietly. There was a tremble to his voice that Bruce could just barely detect. 

“It was a quiet night,” Bruce replied, “I came back early.” 

And then it was there, settling into the space between them. The uncomfortable quiet. The heavy weight that they had both hefted onto their shoulders after years of living with a damaged relationship. 

“Well, I’m pretty tired,” Dick said with a shrug, filling the awkward silence. “Is it ok if I crash here?”

“You don’t have to ask, Dick,” Bruce told him pointedly. Parts of this exchange were familiar. If Bruce had said it once, he’d said it a thousand times. Dick _never_ needed to seek permission in order to stay. 

Except, of course, when Bruce demanded he _did_. When the vitriol got too thick and they would fight. All the times Bruce threw his own _son_ out of his home... 

No. This wasn’t about Bruce’s remorse. It was about Dick. About how fragile and _small_ he looked standing half out of his room. Something was very wrong, but Bruce wasn’t sure if he could ask. Wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do.

Dick sighed, then forced an approximation of a smile, “Thanks, B.” 

The words held finality, but Dick’s posture spoke to the contrary. He didn’t move, just held the door in a white-knuckle grip. Unsure of what to do, Bruce turned to leave in an effort to give him space. 

“Bruce?” 

Ice cold dread bathed Bruce’s stomach. So much fear was held in that single syllable, and if something made the bravest of his children _that_ afraid… 

“Yes?”

Dick inhaled sharply, then held his breath. A tell, of sorts. He was steadying himself.

“Actually, I think… I think we need to talk.”

Dick opened the door the rest of the way and motioned for him to come inside. Bruce suppressed a gasp. Without the wooden barrier between them, he could see that Dick looked _ill_. He’d always been _smaller_ than Bruce, but well muscled - a frame that spoke of power and grace. The Dick that stood before him now, finally in clear view with the brightness from the bedroom silhouetting him, looked comparatively _thin_. His richly tanned skin seemed pale in the meager light. There was a hollowness in his eyes that made Bruce uneasy. 

“Sure.”

He took only a few steps into the room before Dick shut the door. The latch sounded like an omen. 

“Have a seat?” Dick offered tentatively. 

With apprehensive care, Bruce sat down on the edge of the bed. Dick looked everywhere but Bruce’s eyes as he spoke. 

“This… this isn’t easy to say…”

“Take your time,” Bruce urged gently. 

“I have cancer, Bruce. Stage 4 lymphoma. It’s...it’s bad.”

Suddenly, Bruce was grateful that Dick had insisted he sit. He felt lightheaded, and tried to slow his now rapidly-beating heart. 

“We’ll get a second opinion…” Bruce began reflexively because _no_ , this couldn’t be true. This couldn’t be happening.

“I already had one. I have… a few months, give or take. I didn’t mean to just drop this on you...” He trailed off, then shrugged. Waiting for Bruce to say _anything_.

But Bruce was utterly silent. He _knew_ there were things he should say. Reassurances he should give. But his voice abandoned him - lost in the swirling tide of regret and grief that threatened to overtake him. 

“I came here because,” Dick started, then faltered. “I needed to say I was sorry. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, and more times than not it was on me, but…”

Bruce stood abruptly and swallowed Dick’s words in a crushing hug. _Dick_ was sorry? In what universe was Dick _ever_ at fault for the fractures between them? He bit back at the sobs that threatened in his throat and disguised his distress in a stern voice. 

“You will _not_ say that again. Is that understood?” 

Bruce felt Dick still, then nod against his shoulder. He held his son's arms firmly, then moved him away to finally, _finally_ look him in the eyes. Dick’s gaze was searching, glistening. Looking for an anchor in tempestuous waters. Bruce could give him that, if nothing else. 

“I want you to listen to me very carefully. Every day I’ve had you in my life has made me a better man. And if anyone should be sorry, it’s me…”

“Bruce…” Dick interjected. 

“No. No interruptions.”

Bruce’s stony facade was cracking, he couldn’t hold on much longer. He needed to get the words out. 

“If anyone should be sorry, it’s me,” he repeated. “Too many times I pushed you away when I should have told you…”

Mind racing for the right phrasing, Bruce gasped for air. Dick filled the space.

“You don’t have to say it, B. I know.”

Furiously, Bruce shook his head. If he didn’t get the words out _now_ he might never have the chance. Everything seemed so much more _urgent_. Because Dick was…

Dick was dying. And this wasn’t some monster Bruce could subdue, or a complication he could use his tremendous fortune to reverse. No.

Dick was simply _dying_. And Bruce’s heart was shattering. 

“You changed my life, Dick. You’ve made me so proud. You’re my _son_. And I am so sorry if I ever let you forget that, even for a moment. I should never have pushed you away.”

Quietly, just above a hush, Dick replied;

“I love you too, Bruce.”

There. It was said. Maybe not directly, but Dick understood. He _always_ understood. Bruce inhaled until it hurt, if only to steady the trembling that threatened to betray how close to crying he really was. But now was _not_ the time for emotions. Grief could come later. For now, Dick needed him. And this time, he wouldn’t fail. Not again.

_Never_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Billie Eilish's "Bury a Friend"


End file.
